


18. Reminiscence

by tveckling



Series: Dare to Write challenge [21]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Oh boy the angst, Please do pity the poor boy, benvolio is alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 18:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7694734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/pseuds/tveckling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been two years since Benvolio's life fell apart. Everyone around him seems to have either moved on forgotten, but not he. He can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	18. Reminiscence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ambrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrose/gifts).



There is a garden near the palace that doesn’t see many visitors. The fences are high and the thick bushes block all sight from the street, and even if it isn’t forbidden to enter most prefer to stay clear of it. It isn’t a garden normal people should visit, the citizens whisper, it is only for those that are still caught in the tragedy that happened some years earlier. It is for those who live in the past, before death came to Verona.

Benvolio visits the garden daily.

The enclosure isn’t big—it takes less than a couple of minutes to walk from one end to the other—and the many trees and bushes makes the area feel even smaller. There is but one bench, placed in the middle of the garden; it wasn’t built to house many visitors at one time. In the small space there are precisely six statues, each created by the most skilled artist the Prince could find. When he had been presented the results he had paid the man generously, and no one had mentioned the tears running down his face.

Benvolio still sees him at least once a week, staring silently at two of the statues. Sometimes he cries, sometimes he seems to be made of marble himself. There is always the pain and longing. It makes Benvolio remember that he is not the only one grieving, even if it feels that way.

They have never spoken with each other.

Romeo and Juliet are standing next to each other in front of the bench, holding hands and looking so happy that Benvolio rarely is able to look at their faces. The craftsman was too good, and the joy and love that shines from the statues’ faces only points out what was lost. Benvolio likes to lean against the foot of Romeo and talk to him. He talks to Juliet too, tells her stories about Romeo that would have made him faint of embarrassment, tells her all about his and Romeo’s childhood, tells her what an amazing girl she must have been to finally, truly, catch his fleet-footed cousin’s heart. He would have loved to get to know her.

Lady Luciana Montague stands to the left of Romeo, as tall and proud as when she was alive. Even here the artist managed more than ever expected, because even in the stern face of his aunt Benvolio can see softness. Just by looking at her he is reminded of her harshly reprimanding him—for a prank gone wrong, for causing trouble with some Capulets, for being an accomplice to whatever mischief Mercutio had been up to—and then softly sighing and giving him a hug and offering kind words when the guilt was overcoming him. Disappointment had always hit him hardest, and she knew that. That didn’t mean she had ever wanted him to be swallowed by feelings of guilt. He would do anything to be wrapped up in her arms again.

Tybalt is on Juliet’s left, watching over her—and the whole garden—with a guarded look, his hand resting easily on his sword. Even if he is armed he has a relaxed stature, and what Benvolio thinks is a beginning of a smile in the corner of his mouth. It had taken a long time before Benvolio got rid of his urge to spit on him or damage the statue somehow, but eventually he realized there was no use in feeling angry. It wasn’t Tybalt’s fault, after all, what had happened. He had been just as trapped as the rest of them, and Benvolio can’t truly blame him for anything. Even if Benvolio never speaks to him he hopes Tybalt has found peace and freedom, wherever he ended up.

Paris stands in one of the corners behind the bench, on the same side as Tybalt and Juliet. Probably to signal the alliance that could have been. Paris has his arms open and a wide smile, like he has something funny to tell. There is nothing sad or angry about him, and Benvolio wishes he had known the count better. Since he was Mercutio’s cousin they had met plenty of times, but their meetings had only been short and shallow, with him and Mercutio sharing some unintelligible jokes that Benvolio never understood. Benvolio himself had been mostly ignored. From that small experience and Mercutio’s words Benvolio thought of Paris as a strange person—not surprising, considering who he was related to—who enjoyed the company of upper class people and who always got what he wanted. Until he didn’t, that was. He must have been more than Benvolio thought, though, if he had been willing to risk his life to try and bring Romeo to justice, however misguided the effort. He is another regret resting in the back of Benvolio’s mind, and he wishes he had made more of an effort to get to know him. If Mercutio liked him there must have been something more to him.

Benvolio has told Mercutio as much, several times, and admonished him for not inviting Paris in their company more often. He has admonished Mercutio for a lot of things; sometimes it feels like the only reason he goes to the garden is to rage at the silent statue. Many times he had spent hours in front of it, raging and yelling until his voice cracked or he broke down crying, clutching the statue as well as he could. There is never anyone else there but him, so why should he care?

“Valentine has started courting a girl now,” Benvolio says and picks idly at the grass, dropping the strands on his crossed legs carelessly. “When I heard I was surprised, since last I heard he had eyes for no one but Giusto Capello. Remember him? He and his family arrived from Florence a few years ago, merchants dealing with jewelry. He’s a nice kid, and I thought he and Valentine was a nice couple. Your brother takes after you too much, though, and apparently can’t stay still. Or maybe it was Romeo’s influence, prompting him to get bored as soon as he gets what he wants. I don’t know. It certainly doesn’t have anything to do with me, that’s for sure.

"My uncle still tries to marry me off, by the way.” He pauses and flicks a grass towards Mercutio. “He thinks it’ll work if he nags my ear off, I think. I even told him, you know, about us. It was after he had pushed me a bit too hard, sprung a surprise visit from a candidate to be my wife on me. I pushed back, told him how that was enough and that he could stop, because I would never agree to marry. I was in love with you, and you were the only person I would ever agree to share my life with. He answered that love doesn’t matter, and that I needed to produce an heir to the family.” With a snort he leans back on his hands and looks up at the sky. He pretends the ache in his eyes is caused by the sun’s sharpness.

“It’s true, though. Just so you know. I would have spent the rest of my life with you, without hesitation. I don’t know if it’s love or whatever—if it was love, shouldn’t I have killed myself by now to be with you? Like Romeo did.”

Benvolio lowers his eyes and looks at Mercutio, studies the fall of his hair, the lines of his face. If he ignores the color he can almost imagine that it’s really Mercutio in front of him. The face looks so soft, and Benvolio longs to reach out and touch, to kiss his cheek or lips, to seek comfort. The last time he allowed himself to do so, however, the coldness wouldn’t leave him for days.

“I want to do it, most of the days,” he whispers instead, staying completely still. “Whenever I’m not here I feel so empty. If I had known how much of myself I put in the two of you, you and Romeo, I… I don’t know. I wouldn’t have changed anything. I couldn’t have. I loved you both too much. And that’s what’s killing me, I suppose,” he adds with a weak grin. It falters quickly, and he sighs. “I can’t die yet, though. There’s too much hanging on me. I need to take care of my uncle and the family, I have to keep on building the friendship with the Capulet family, and there’s more. Did you know that I’ve been called to talk with your uncle? According to the letter he wanted to talk about plans for the future. It might have to do with Valentine, since I’ve become his surrogate brother—more than I already was. I can’t say I’m looking forward to when he becomes Prince, I’ll tell you. Your brother is too much like you, Cutio. All wildfire and a will that bows to no person, and a stubbornness that makes you want to strangle him at times. And he’s just gotten worse since you-”

Benvolio closes his mouth and presses it into a thin line. He still can’t say it.

“He’s getting worse the older he gets. He’s soon turning fourteen, and I see more and more of you in him each day. I swear, sometimes I wonder if he hasn’t vowed to become more of a troublemaker than you ever managed to be.”

Mercutio’s grin is all that answers him, but Benvolio thinks he can hear laughter in the wind. The mirth is practically dancing in Mercutio’s eyes, and he is leaning forward slightly, inviting Benvolio to continue. Mercutio’s statue is the only one that isn’t standing up; instead he is sitting down, cross-legged and with his chin in his hand. He looks relaxed, amused, and ready to huddle close and make plans for mischief. Out of all the statues Mercutio’s is the masterpiece in Benvolio’s opinion. It seems so lifelike that it hurts, and even if he feels like he’s tearing himself apart by coming back he can’t bring himself to leave. It’s the last piece of Mercutio he has.

He smiles, pretends his heart isn’t aching, and lifts a hand to trail down Mercutio’s cheek.

“I’ll look out for him for you,” he whispers. “No matter how long ago it was made, a promise is a promise. He’s in good hands, I swear to you. I won’t let him jump into any foolish duels.”

His hand falls and he stands up slowly. For a while he then stands there, watching the statue in silence.

“I only wish I could have stopped you.”


End file.
